


Roses Are Red, Bollocks Are Blue

by rightonmybins



Series: The Real Househusbands of Baker Street [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Fluff and Humor, John's poetry stinks, M/M, Pouty Sherlock, Sherlock's Birthday, That didn't go so well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightonmybins/pseuds/rightonmybins
Summary: Sherlock discovers that John is writing a birthday poem for him….and it’s terrible.





	Roses Are Red, Bollocks Are Blue

Although Sherlock had always ridiculed John’s attempts at writing poetry, he was quite disappointed that John had never written any for HIM.

John only ever wrote him notes about tedious things like laundry and shopping, severed heads in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave. Back in the day when he’d still had girlfriends, John composed treacly love poems on the laptop, then carefully wrote them out by hand before folding them lovingly and slipping them into a box of chocolates or a pretty bouquet. Sherlock would have died before admitting how much he coveted those little love-offerings. He had openly scoffed at the chocolates and flowers and sentimental verse, yet Sherlock secretly longed for some tangible evidence of John’s affection.

However, John wasn't inclined to express his love for Sherlock with such romantic gestures: the stoic Captain Watson's deepest feelings were demonstrated in gifts of service, loyalty, steadfastness and bravery. John followed Sherlock into the darkest, most dangerous places without a thought for himself, risked his life and health (and sanity) daily, and believed in Sherlock in times when everyone else turned away. But there were no flowers, no sweets, no Valentines. And John was utter balls at gift-buying, forever doing his Christmas shopping in Tesco at the very last minute, or picking up some daft thing at the corner newsagent.

So when Sherlock discovered that John was writing poetry again - without a girlfriend in sight - he felt a tingle of anticipation and a not-unpleasant kind of romantic anxiety. He hadn’t really been snooping, he'd only borrowed John’s laptop because his own was much too far away down the hall in the bedroom. John had left a file open and of course Sherlock could not possibly bother to mind his own business.

_In the pale dawn light I beheld you_  
 _Standing strong in the morning air_  
 _Pointing the way toward eternity_  
 _With the wind of tomorrow in your hair_.

Well now. That was actually rather virile when one came right down to it: “Standing strong…pointing toward eternity…” Awkwardly expressed, of course, but not exactly something one would write to a girlfriend.

Sherlock began typing, wondering what had suddenly inspired John to such heights of literary mediocrity. Then he smiled. His birthday was just days away, and since John was quite observant about birthdays, this poem was obviously meant for him. He pictured himself and John standing high atop one of the granite piles that dotted the Devon moors, looking out over the countryside. Up there the air was fresh, the morning light soft, and the wind ruffled their hair. Apparently John had some very fond memories of their adventures in Dartmoor.

Despite the conspicuous lack of imagination and, well….taste…. John’s inelegant attempt to pay tribute to their relationship was rather touching. Pity it was so full of stale sentiment, but on the other hand his heart was in the right place. Sherlock felt a sudden flame of deep affection for his devoted, resolute soldier and doctor with the soul of a poet. Well, the soul of an aspiring pop songwriter, at any rate.  
Finishing his blog post, Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and headed down the hall to the bedroom for a proper nap.

John was glad to see that the sitting room was deserted, and faint snoring told him Sherlock was likely to be occupied for some time yet. He opened his laptop. Argh, this was bloody awful. What had he been thinking? Up too late last night plus too much cognac equaled some very sappy doggerel. This would never do.  
He started typing again.

_The mountains rise vast and majestic_   
_Above the plain of golden wheat and rye_   
_And in the infinite blue of the heavens_   
_I see a paradise in your eyes._

Not much better but time was limited, and it was his night to cook.

Sherlock waited impatiently for John to leave for work in the morning, before rushing to check on the progress of “his” poem.  
Good lord, this thing was going from bad to worse. “Rye” and “eyes” didn't come close to rhyming! The meter was nothing to applaud either, so disjointed and jolting as it was. And that trite Technicolor imagery belonged in an air freshener advert.  
Furthermore, doesn’t he know the color of my eyes by now? I’m not the one with eyes like the infinite blue of the heavens…. Hmmph.

He read it over once more, searching for any possible shred of redeeming value. What on earth could all this mean?  
Oh. Maybe there was more to it than met the eye. Maybe this wasn’t just about Nature.  
Might it possibly refer to their memorable interlude in Switzerland in the edelweiss meadow…  
Or perhaps that unforgettable incident in the Scottish Highlands, in a particularly scratchy patch of heather…  
Once again Sherlock smiled at John’s ungainly but romantic attempt at a love sonnet.  
His response, however, would demand some serious acting skill when John eventually presented him with this birthday gift.

John sighed with annoyance. He was going to give that bloody verse idea just one more chance before he abandoned it and moved on to something else.

_The rising summer tide conceals_  
 _The ripples in the golden sand_  
 _And the retreating wave reveals_  
 _Your shadow on the shining land_.

Bugger it. This was simply never going to work. John closed the laptop and wondered whether Sherlock was planning to serve something other than beans for tea.

Sherlock could barely wait to see what else John had been typing away at while he had been opening a tin of beans for tea. The moment John went in to take a shower, Sherlock flipped open the laptop to read the latest installment.  
Horrors. “Treacle” did not even begin to describe this blob of mawkish twaddle. It rivaled the outpourings of a love-struck middle schooler, written in pink ink in a boy-band notebook. Oh John.  
And what COULD he be banging on about now? Surely not the delightfully dirty weekend in Brighton when they’d got all that sand in… Never mind.  
He heard John coming down the hall and slapped the laptop shut.

On his birthday morning Sherlock came yawning into the kitchen to find two steaming mugs of tea, plus a plate of warm scones sent up by Mrs. Hudson. John was cheerful and congratulatory.  
“Happy birthday, Sherlock.” John handed him an envelope.

Sherlock prepared to do the best acting job of his life. He devoutly hoped he wouldn’t laugh: John was about to pour out his awkwardly-phrased feelings for him at last, and Sherlock had learned enough by now to know that ridiculing someone’s feelings was A Bit Not Good. Luckily there were plenty of decapitated nuns in the Mind Palace to think about, just in case the situation required instant decorum.

Inside the envelope was a folded piece of paper. In John’s awkward slanting handwriting was written:  
“Dear Sherlock: I tried and failed to come up with a suitable gift for your birthday, but if you will accept this IOU I promise to make it up to you later. With best birthday wishes and fondest love, John.”

Sherlock stared at the paper, ignoring John’s expectant face. He flipped it back and forth, frontwards and backwards, just to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything resembling a poem.

“I’m really sorry, Sherlock, I just couldn’t think of…”  
“But where’s my poem?”  
“What poem?”  
“John, it’s been plainly evident that you have been writing a birthday poem for me, although you concealed it so badly that you may as well have published it on the front page of the Daily Mail. The poem! ‘Winds of tomorrow, shadow on the shining land…’? ” He waved the paper around in exasperated confusion.

After a stunned moment John began to laugh. He laughed so hard he choked on his tea and nearly upset his mug onto the scones.  
“Sherlock – " John was wheezing with laughter. “Sherlock, that wasn't intended for you - it was a cryptography exercise! Codes, ciphers, first letter of every word…? Like the London A-Z book? It was for a blog post!" He laughed till tears came.  
"How could you ever think that ghastly dog’s dinner was a poem?”

John’s laughter filled the kitchen, bounced off the walls, pounded Sherlock's ears. He sat stony-faced as he always did on the rare occasions when John laughed AT him - silent and resentful. Finally he assumed his usual defensive, elaborately-unconcerned expression. “John, I think my little joke has escaped you entirely,” he said stiffly. “Nevertheless, thank you for your thoughtful gift.”

“Now this is your own fault, Sherlock, you shouldn’t have been snooping in my laptop,” John said, still chuckling.

“I wasn’t snooping. I was deducing. You have never been the most demonstrative of men, John. You only write poetry when you are in love, although your previous discernment of “love” was merely flawed thinking on your part. Girlfriends are apparently not your area either, something which is blindingly obvious to both of us. My birthday was imminent, and poetry of a sort was openly in view. Ergo: birthday poem.”

“All right, Miss Marple, let’s not get carried away here.”

“You have every right to laugh at me, John – I have certainly laughed often enough at you. Go ahead, you’re quite entitled to your childish display of irksome merriment.”  
Sherlock frowned, drummed his long fingers on the table, looked everywhere but at John’s face. If he’d been wrong about the poem, then no telling what else he might be wrong about. Looking the fool was a new and abhorrent experience, but worse yet: John obviously didn't care enough to write any kind of poetry for him, not even a rubbish cryptography exercise.

John pursed his lips and did some deducing of his own. Sherlock was clearly mortified at having been proved wrong, but why would he be upset because there was no birthday poem? Sherlock hated his poetry!  
He looked at his lover’s pouting face, the handwritten note, and replayed Sherlock's jab about his “flawed thinking” - and suddenly understood that what Sherlock really wanted, but could not bear to ask for, was simply to be wooed. With all the romantic trimmings.  
Imagine that: the machine-like Sherlock Holmes longing for some hearts and flowers and a mushy love poem.

John came around the table and sat down on Sherlock's lap, and put his arms around his neck.  
“Sherlock, you always laughed so mercilessly at my poetry. And you ridiculed the flowers, the Valentines – what else was I to think? You were not the most demonstrative of men either, at least in my experience. God forbid I should embarrass you with any sticky displays of affection. So I just suppressed all those foolish impulses to fill your pockets with love notes and cover the bed with rose petals.”

Sherlock gradually gave up his stiffly defensive posture and his stroppy attitude, and relaxed into John’s embrace.

“You’re right, Sherlock, my thinking was flawed indeed. It took me far too long to see that my love for you was real cause of all those shipwrecked romances. You’re my constant, my polar star. You’re why I’m here. And whatever you want of me, you may have – flaws and all.” John wound one of Sherlock's curls around his finger and pulled him down for a kiss.

Sherlock rested his head against John’s. “It’s fine, John. It’s all fine. And rose petals on the bed sound quite nice. Although what I’d really like...”

“You want a birthday poem?” John asked. “All right, I’ll give you one:  
Roses are red,  
Violets are blue,  
Sugar in your hands can be lethal  
And you’ve nearly got me killed more times than I can count  
Not to mention that head in the fridge incident  
But on the whole of it  
My favourite consulting detective  
Is you.”

“John, that’s….terrible…er, terribly sweet.”  
“Happy birthday, Sherlock my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> John's cheesy poetry is my own crap invention.


End file.
